


Grandpa's hat

by Tikatu



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Canon - TV, Family, Fluff, Framing Story, Gen, Hats, Memories, Next Generation, Vignette, WeeTracys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tikatu/pseuds/Tikatu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff finds his father's hat and reminisces. Older story, posted with few edits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jeff and Grant

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to get inspiration in the strangest places. This one came about from a thread found on livejournal's _fanficrants_ , believe it or not. I've written it in an attempt to break my writer's block on _Overtures_ and _The White Winds_. Any mistakes you see are entirely my own; Hobbeth was on vacation. Special thanks to Amanda Tracy and MagicMaster8 for being sounding boards.
> 
> I'm going with the 2065 timeline, and Marriott's ages and birth order. The year that Jeff goes to the moon corresponds with _The Complete Thunderbirds Story_ as found in the 1990s comic books, where Virgil has been born not long before Jeff's lunar expedition.
> 
>  _Disclaimer:_ I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. 

**June, 2069**

"Now, I _know_ it's up here."

Jeff Tracy reached up as far as his arm would go, his hand searching along the tops of the boxes on the highest shelf of his walk-in closet. He was looking for a particular box, one he needed right away.

"It must have gotten pushed back somehow..."

He continued to search, his shoulder joint beginning to ache with the exertion. He was just about to give up and get a stepladder so he could actually see what was up there when his hand found the rounded corner of the container he wanted. Rising on tiptoe, stretching even farther, he finally caught the cord of the round box, pulling it carefully up and over the items in front of it. At the last moment, the front edge of the receptacle caught and it flipped over, falling on Jeff, who gave a surprised shout. He acted quickly to catch it. After a bit of fumbling, the intact carton sat in its owner's hands.

"Ah!" he said, satisfied. The box was wide and relatively flat, with a snug fitting cover. It was made of an opaque plastic designed to preserve antiques. Jeff took the container over to his bed, laid it down, and undid the catches that held the lid on tightly.

"There it is," he murmured as he reached in to pull out a battered leather hat.

It was a dark brown, with what the hat makers called a flat crown. A leather braid, of the same dark brown, ran around the band of the hat. The brim was relatively wide and didn't curl upward, nor did it the crown have a "pinch spot" as a western cattleman's hat would. It was simple, functional, and had seen many, many better days.

He held it reverently, fingertips of one hand curled just inside the band, the brim resting on his palm. It was his father's, the last in a succession of almost identical hats that Grant Tracy had worn over the decades of his life. Turning the leather headgear around on his hand, Jeff let his mind retreat to a fragment of memory, his first clear remembrance of his father and the hat that became his trademark.

_**July, 2017** _

The door to the kitchen opened and young Jeff looked up from setting the table for supper. The July day was hot and dry, making the eight-year-old glad for the air conditioned farmhouse. Not that he spent much time inside. In the mornings, before the day got hot, he did his chores: feeding the chickens, collecting eggs, making sure that the dogs had water. He would take his father's lunch out to him, riding his two-wheeler down the dusty roads surrounding the seemingly vast fields of wheat to wherever his father was. Sometimes Grant would be testing soil or checking for insect infestation. Sometimes he'd be repairing the irrigation systems, or trying to decide if they needed to administer a fungicide. These days he was driving one of the giant combines, harvesting the tall stalks of wheat that he and his hired men had labored over for the past year.

On this particular evening, the sun was still shining when Grant came home. He brought with him a blast of hot air. A cloud of dust swirled in with it as he stamped his feet on the mat just outside the kitchen door. His hat was wet with sweat, a wide, dark stain discoloring the leather around the band. His clothes were wet, too, the denim shirt dyed nearly navy blue from just below the shoulders down. He smelled of perspiration and hay, mixed with just a hint of Old Spice. Eleanor went to him, so Grant removed his hat before he leaned down to kiss her.

"Don't know why you want to kiss me when I'm all soggy like this, El," he said, smiling, as their long kiss ended.

"Haven't seen you all day and you need some sugar," she replied, pulling his head back down for another, more business-like kiss. When that was finished, she moved back to the stove. "Better clean up, Grant. Jeff, don't forget the butter and jam for the biscuits."

"Yes, ma'am," Jeff answered.

"Here, hang this up for me, will you, son?" Grant asked, a bit of humor in his voice. He plunked his sweat drenched hat on Jeff's head, pushing it forward to cover the boy's eyes.

"Daaaad!" Jeff cried, pushing the hat up so he could see. It smelled heavily of leather, and felt warm and damp. His father chuckled and pushed it back down again.

"Grant," Eleanor said in a warning tone.

"I'm going! I'm going!" the wheat farmer replied, his hands held up in protest. He headed out of the room, making for the upstairs bedrooms.

Jeff removed his father's hat, hanging it on a hook by the door. There it would dry, and in the morning - if Jeff was up early enough to see his father head for the fields - the sides of the hat would have a fine white edge where the sweat had stopped. He didn't understand why his father preferred this to the feed caps that most of the hired hands, and indeed, most of the farmers in the area wore. But it didn't matter. His father was who he was, an individual, and his choice of headgear just proclaimed it that much louder.

xxxx

Jeff smiled at the memory, and lifted the hat to eye level to inspect it carefully. There was no trace of discoloration on this one, but then, it hadn't gone through but a few hot Kansas summers, and even fewer days being worn out in the sun. Besides, before Jeff had put it in the box, he'd had it professionally cleaned.

"How many of these did he eventually have?" he wondered aloud as he lowered the hat, fingering the slight indentation that ran just inside the edge of the crown. "Four, five? He must have bought more than one over the years, but I really only remember that one instance."

Again, the memory rose like a snapshot, so Jeff stopped for a moment to savor it.

_**January, 2024** _

"Brr! It's cold!" teenaged Jeff complained as he followed his father into the echoing aluminum pole barn they called a garage. He looked up as the walls shook and boomed, buffeted by the strong storm winds. "What a time for a blizzard!"

"We can't choose the weather, Jeff. We've got to get the plow on the tractor and do it now, before it gets dark." Grant glanced up at the hanging fluorescent lights as they swung slightly in the cavernous room. "I don't suppose we'll have power for much longer. Then we'll have to fire up the generator to provide electricity for the house..."

"But not the garage," Jeff said, finishing his father's sentence.

"Right," Grant replied, nodding. "Let's get to work."

Father and son worked side by side, lifting the heavy plow with block and tackle before fastening it to the front of the enclosed tractor. The cold numbed their fingers. They fumbled with their tools, dropping them on occasion, the metal clanging on the cement floor and resounding above the whistle of the winds outside. Their breath rose as steam before their faces; it became difficult to talk through chapped lips and jaws that felt frozen in place.

At long last, they finished their task. Grant climbed into the cab of the tractor to start it up, making certain both that it _would_ start and that they had connected vehicle and plow blade correctly. They had; the blade moved up and down, back and forth, as it should.

"Okay, son. Let's get back to the house. I could use a cup of hot coffee." Grant wound his wool scarf around his neck and lower face.

"So could I." Jeff pulled his close-fitting knit cap down around his ears. He puzzled over why his father hadn't put on something warmer than his usual leather hat. He was about to ask, but stopped and shrugged. The trek back to the house wasn't far. Soon they'd be inside where it was warm.

"Ready, Jeff?" Grant asked, poised to open the side door and expose them to the wild weather.

Jeff tugged on his gloves. "Ready."

They stepped outside into a world that seemed eager to sweep them from its face. The snow didn't just fall; it whipped around them, stinging any exposed skin, making them squint through suddenly snow-laden lashes. The sky was darkening, both from the storm and the approach of night. The halogen flood lamps dimmed behind them as they advanced into the blizzard. The only beacon they had before them was the warm yellow light over the kitchen door, where Eleanor watched fretfully for their return. Grant led the way, like an ice breaker, making a path through the deepening drifts for his slighter son, hoping to shield him somewhat from the fierce winds. Jeff shielded his eyes with a forearm, keeping them trained on his father's back, following that dark mass and trying hard not to fall behind.

Suddenly there was a cry, and a movement to Jeff's right, like a bird taking flight. It looked like his father stumbled before him. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought two things in rapid succession. One, that his father had suffered some kind of attack, and two, that the lights had gone out. But no, there was still a gleam from behind, fainter than ever, yet still marking the direction away from the garage. His father still moved, trudging steadily through the snow toward the house.

It seemed like hours passed before they reached the relative safety of the porch. They stomped the excess snow off their boots in preparation for going inside. It was then that he noticed the wet shine of his father's hair under the porch light. He stared at it for a moment, wondering what was wrong with the picture before the door opened and things fell into place.

"Grant!" Eleanor exclaimed as the two men stepped inside. "What happened to your hat?"

"Wind took it," Grant mumbled as he unwound the muffler from his lower face. He turned to Jeff, who had pulled off his knit cap, making his dark hair stick up in all directions. "You okay, son?"

Jeff nodded, face still too numb to speak. His mother moved in to help him unzip his jacket as his father sat on the deacon's bench to remove his wet boots.

Within a quarter hour, the three of them sat before the fire in the living room, hands cradling cups of hot coffee. Jeff took a scalding sip, then blew out a soft sigh.

"You gave me a scare there, Dad," he said, looking up and behind him to where his parents sat close together on the settee. "I didn't know what had happened when you shouted."

"Damned wind took my hat, that's all," Grant groused. "Now I'll have to order a new one. And I'd just gotten that one broken in, too."

"Better to lose a hat than your life, Grant Tracy," Eleanor said crisply. "I'm glad you had enough sense not to go chasing after it."

Grant smiled slightly, and leaned over to kiss his wife on the cheek. "So am I."

xxxx

Brought back to the present, Jeff sat heavily on his bed and sighed. _I didn't lose my dad to that snowstorm, but to a later one when he had a heart attack while shoveling snow. Then the following year ... I lost Lucille._ He shook his head sadly. _In a way, living out here has a benefit. There's no snow to remind me of that terrible day._

He glanced over at his nightstand, where he kept two pictures. One was of Lucille, a candid shot taken not long before she died. She complained that the picture showed off the few silver strands that had crept into her auburn hair. Jeff could never see what she was talking about.

The other picture was of the two of them, moments after he'd been officially released from WSA quarantine. It had been taken by his father and showed the still-young couple locked into a passionate, hungry embrace to the delight of the onlooking crowd. Another memory came to him and he unconsciously moved the hat to his chest, holding onto the crown as the images rose again in his mind's eye.

_**June, 2039** _

The day was sunny, but not too hot. A good thing in Jeff's mind as he and Lucille were sitting in the back seat of a red convertible, waving. An odd motion, that wave, more of a back-and-forth of the hand rather than an up-and-down. He had been told it be easier on his elbow joints than the traditional movement.

"I can't believe it! All these people!" he told Lucille, nearly shouting in her ear above the cries and applause of the crowd that lined the main street of his Kansas hometown. "People must have come for miles around for this parade."

Lucille turned and smiled at him. "Well, it's not every day that a hometown boy is the first man to set foot on the moon in fifty years or more. You're a bona fide hero, Jefferson Tracy. Now, wave to the crowds and look like you're enjoying yourself!"

He laughed, and did as she said, smiling widely at the people who applauded them and cheered. Some waved American flags while others held banners that welcomed him home. It seemed everyone was excited and proud of him and his exploits. He knew it wouldn't last; he'd been warned about the euphoria in his training and how fleeting it would be. But for now he intended to enjoy both it and the fact that he could share it with the one person who made his life complete.

Jeff scanned the crowd, seeing many familiar faces, too many such faces, and suddenly felt very self-conscious among these people. They _knew_ him. He had gone to school with them, gotten into and out of scrapes with them, dated the girls, worked with their fathers. In short, these people didn't only know Jefferson Tracy, astronaut and hero, but they knew _him,_ Jeff Tracy, farmer's son. His mouth suddenly went dry, and he held tightly to Lucille's hand as the car slowly followed its escort of motorcycle riding state troopers.

The high school band was behind them, playing through their repertoire of patriotic songs. Before them marched a military color guard, made up of men and women from the US Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines. He had been an Air Force man, a colonel, but as an astronaut in the World Space Agency, he was supposed to be above national military distinctions. Hence the mixed color guard.

As they continued down the street, Lucy pulled on Jeff's hand and pointed. He leaned in closely to hear her say, "Look! There are our parents and the boys!"

Ahead of them, on the left, at the edge of the curb, stood Lucy's father and mother. Her father held little Scott, a mere four years old, on his shoulders. He pointed to the car and waved, his wife waving as well, trying to show the little boy who was in that big red car. Scott looked around for a moment, finally spying his parents riding by. He took his fingers out of his mouth long enough to wave and smile at them. Beside Lucy's parents, seated in a chair and protected by a wide umbrella, was Eleanor. On her lap she held a chubby baby boy: Jeff and Lucy's second son, Virgil. She was bouncing the the baby gently on her knee. When she realized who was driving by, she looked up, smiling, pointing at them and directing the baby's attention to the people in the bright car.

Jeff tore his eyes away from his mother and sons to focus on his father. Grant Tracy didn't look at his son and daughter-in-law at first. Instead, he stood at attention, his leather hat held over his heart as the color guard went by with the flag, his eyes watching it as it moved down the street. When it had passed him by completely, his gaze moved to Jeff and Lucy. His hat stayed over his heart, clutched by one hand, as the other came up in a salute.

It was a simple act, but it communicated so much. Honor, approval, appreciation, respect, love; all those feelings and more were wrapped up in that one gesture. Jeff felt his heart fill with emotion; his eyes stung with tears, and he swallowed heavily. Sitting up straighter, he raised his hand in a sharp salute to his father. He held it for a moment, then lowered his hand, and nodded. Grant returned the nod, and added a wink and a smile, then donned his leather hat again.

_to be continued..._


	2. Jeff and his sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Older fic, posted here with few edits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in an attempt to break my writer's block on _Overtures_ and _The White Winds_. Any mistakes you see are entirely my own; Hobbeth was on vacation. Special thanks to Amanda Tracy and MagicMaster8 for being sounding boards.
> 
> I'm going with the 2065 timeline, and Marriott's ages and birth order. The year that Jeff goes to the moon corresponds with _The Complete Thunderbirds Story_ as found in the 1990s comic books, where Virgil has been born not long before Jeff's lunar expedition.
> 
>  _Disclaimer:_ I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them.

Jeff started, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He suddenly realized how he was holding the hat. Lowering his arm, he propped the hat on one knee. A glance at the clock made him get quickly to his feet. "I've been woolgathering too long," he muttered as he put the hat on his head and left the room.

He passed through his suite, striding briskly down the hallway toward the lounge, where almost everyone was gathered. He passed by Scott's set of rooms, slowing as a memory of another time he wore the hat came to mind.

_**June, 2047 - Scott** _

“So, how much farther to the campsite?” Scott asked as he trudged alongside his tall father, a heavy pack on his back.

Jeff shook his head. He hooked his thumbs in the straps of his own backpack, hoping to ease the pressure on his shoulders. “I have no idea, son. You'd better ask your scoutmaster.”

“Hmph,” Scott groused, looking up the long line of fathers and sons to the man in the khaki uniform shirt who led them up the wooded trail. “It would take too long to get up there.” He gazed hopefully up at his father. “Would you ask him? You've got the radio.”

Snorting a laugh, Jeff shook his head. “No, Scott, I'm not going to ask. Yes, I've got the radio, but it's for emergencies, in case anyone has to stop and would fall behind. Using it just to ask how much farther isn't an emergency.” He reached out to pull off Scott's khaki Scout's cap and ruffle his dark hair. “Besides it would sound too much like someone was asking, 'Are we there yet?' And you know how much that irritates grown-ups.”

Scott snatched his cap back, returning it to his head with a firm tug. “Yeah, I guess so.” He looked up at Jeff again, squinting a bit this time as they entered a sunny spot. “How come we have to be rear guard, anyway?”

“Because I've had survival training, that's why,” Jeff replied. He pulled off the leather hat, running a hand through his sweaty hair as he gestured with his head at the line of boys and men. “Now, you and I are falling behind. Let's get moving and catch up with the others.”

“Okay,” Scott said.

Jeff put his hat back on and lengthened his stride. Scott moved in front of his father, glancing back with a mischievous grin. Before Jeff could react, the cheeky boy jumped up, snatched the hat from his father's head, and was off and running as quickly as his burden would let him.

“Hey!” Jeff cried. “Gimme back that hat!”

“Come and get it!” was the impish answer.

Jeff grinned, and took off after his son.

xxxx

Jeff grinned just as he had years before. He came back to the present to find himself in front of Virgil's door. He stopped for a moment to take off the hat, examining it once again as an incident with Virgil came to mind.

_**February, 2052 - Virgil** _

“Dad?” Virgil poked his head around Jeff's open study door and knocked on the door frame.

Jeff glanced up from the reports he was looking over, his attitude harried. “Yes, son?” he asked, his eyes straying back to the computer screen.

“Can I borrow Grandpa's hat?”

This caught Jeff's attention. “Why?” he asked, looking up and frowning.

“I have to do a still life for art class, and it's due Friday,” Virgil explained nervously. “I've got this scene in my mind and it won't let me go. The hat is important to the scene. Can I borrow it? I promise to be careful with it.”

Jeff turned his eyes away for a moment, trying to think, but his mind was too full of the business he was conducting. Finally, he distractedly waved a hand.

“Sure, go ahead,” he said. “Your grandmother should know where it is.”

“Thanks, Dad!”

The obvious delight in his son's voice made him look up. Still, he nearly missed the sudden, joyful brightening of Virgil's face before the teen took off.

“You're welcome, son,” he called before turning back to the computer.

On Thursday evening, he came across his artistic son in the den, working feverishly on coloring his still life. The hat lay on the knotty pine of the coffee table, with a coiled lariat lying beside it. Jeff wondered where he had gotten the rope. Virgil had also borrowed one of Alan's old toy guns and holster, arranging those pieces to evoke a mood, one of nostalgia, of yearning for the old days.

As Jeff moved behind him to see the picture, Virgil became aware of his presence and clutched the sketch pad to his chest. He looked up at his father imploringly.

“Not now, Dad, please. I'll show it to you when I'm finished.”

Jeff opened his mouth to cajole the artist into showing him the picture, but instead thought better of it. Instead, he smiled and nodded. “Okay, Virgil. Show me later, when it's done.”

He was up and gone early on Friday morning, so didn't get to see the picture until the night of the student projects exhibition. He arrived home late that particular afternoon, bone tired. He wanted nothing more than an early bedtime, but Eleanor had insisted that they go.

“Jeff, both John and Virgil have projects on display, which means you need to be there,” she told him in a tone that brooked no argument. So he sighed, put on a tie again, and went with the boys to the middle school.

Sixth-grader John's science project was an in depth study of the various heavenly bodies that had been photographed for the first time over the past year. Jeff looked at it with interest and pride, happy that at least one of his sons seemed to be following in his footsteps.

But it was Virgil's drawing that truly surprised him. Not only had the young artist managed to capture the sense of nostalgia he had been working for, but the artwork had also been entered in a statewide contest and had won first place in the middle school division.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Jeff asked his son, amazed at the blue ribbon attached to the framed and matted picture.

Virgil looked down at the toes of his dress shoes, murmuring modestly, “I wanted to surprise you.”

Jeff laughed and put an arm around his son, squeezing him in a sideways hug. “And what a wonderful surprise it is! Congratulations!”

xxxx

Jeff shook himself and gazed down the hallway. Next to Virgil's room was Alan's suite, and then Gordon's. At the end of the corridor was John's. He stared at the far door, suddenly struck by another memory. _Oh, God,_ Jeff thought as he looked down at the hat. _John. That hot day ... the hat. I haven't thought about that for years._

_**August, 2043 - John** _

“Damn, it's hot today,” Jeff complained to Lucille as they walked along. He pushed the stroller that held a sleeping, six-month-old Gordon while Lucy held the hand of a nearly three-year-old John. Scott and Virgil ran ahead, stopping at the next animal exhibit.

“Don't I know it! At least Gordon's in the shade,” Lucy said wearily, fanning herself with a brochure. They walked at what the older boys thought was a snail's pace, for Lucy was pregnant with their fifth son and Jeff wanted to go easy on her. He was thankful for the shade of his father's old hat, a last minute thought in the busyness of packing to take three active boys and a baby to the zoo.

“I'm sorry, honey,” Jeff sincerely told his wife. “I had no idea it was going to be this hot or crowded here today.” He frowned and called to his older sons, “Scott, Virgil, get back here and stay close!”

The two brothers came at his call, but both were excited and anxious to get on and see all the animals.

“Mom, Dad, there's a cool lemur exhibit up there,” Scott said, pulling on Lucy's hand. “Come on!”

Jeff stopped in his tracks to face his wife and sons. “Okay, that's enough, Scott.” He turned his eyes to the food pavilion, a shady spot ahead of them. “Listen, boys.” He looked down at Scott and Virgil. “Your mother is really tired. So this is what we're going to do.”

Within ten minutes, the family was sitting at a picnic table beneath the pavilion, out of the sun. It was cooler there, and Jeff left Virgil and John with Lucy while he and Scott purchased cold soft drinks for them all. They sat and rested, quenching their thirst, until finally the boys were ready to go again.

“Lucy, I'll take the boys around. You stay here where it's cooler. We'll be back soon.”

Lucille sighed with relief. As much as she enjoyed the zoo, she was tired and hot. Both the shade and the chance to sit were welcome.

“Thanks, sweetheart. We'll be here.”

“Come on!” Scott said eagerly, pulling on his father's arm.

“Just a minute.” Jeff got down on John's level to put a knuckle under his third son's chin. “Now, John, will you stay here and help your mother with Gordon?”

“I wanna go wi' you, Daddy,” the little boy said, his lower lip trembling. “I wanna see the ellepants.”

“You want to see the elephants?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeff smiled softly. “It's a long walk to see the elephants, and your brothers want to walk really fast. Are you sure you want to go?”

John nodded, his eyes filling with tears. Lucy put a hand on Jeff's arm. He turned to her, listening closely as she murmured her opinion in his ear. He smiled, kissing her on the lips before turning back to the tow-headed boy.

“Well then, John, if you want to see elephants, then elephants you shall see,” he said. Taking off the leather hat, he swung the boy to his shoulders. “Here, put this on your head,” he instructed, handing the hat up to his now smiling son. “Hold on tight! Scott, Virgil, let's go. Lucy, we'll be back soon.”

“Bye, Mommy!” John called, waving to Lucy as the four Tracys left the shade of the pavilion, heading off to see the elephants and whatever else the zoo had to offer.

xxxx

He stood there for a moment, realizing that the hat figured into a lot of good memories, ones that he should tell his sons about. _But this isn't getting me to the lounge now, is it?_ He walked purposefully toward the study but his step slowed again as the smooth, warm leather beneath his fingers brought up another slice of his life.

_**March, 2047 - Gordon** _

“Daddy, will you play horsey wi' me?” The redheaded three-year-old opened the study door without knocking, sticking his head inside to ask his question.

Jeff glanced over at the tyke and said sternly, “Gordon, you know you're supposed to knock at the study door, especially when it's closed.”

“Oh, okay. I'm sorry, Daddy,” Gordon replied, looking appropriately sorrowful.

“I forgive you, son. Now, please let me get back to work.”

“Okay, Daddy.” The little head withdrew and the door shut with a muted bang.

Jeff started counting. He knew exactly what was going to happen. Sure enough, at the count of fifteen, there was a single knock on the door.

“Come in, Gordon,” he said, sighing.

The little boy stuck his head in again, grinning from ear to ear. “Daddy, will you play horsey wi' me?”

Jeff looked at him pointedly. “How do you ask, Gordon?” he prompted.

Gordon stopped for a moment, his baby face wrinkled in a puzzled frown. Then it cleared. “Oh, yeah. Be right back.” He shut the door again and Jeff began to silently count.

This time, he only got to ten before the one knock came. “Come in, Gordon.”

“Hi, Daddy!” The boy smiled cheerfully at him as he stuck his head in again. “Daddy, will you play horsey wi' me, _please_?”

“Why can't you play horsey with Scott?” Jeff asked, hoping that perhaps his eldest could stand in for him this once.

Gordon rolled his eyes. “He's doin' homework.”

“What about Virgil?”

“He's playin' the piano.”

“How about John?”

Gordon frowned. “John's not a good horsey. He always falls down.” He gave his father his very best impression of a lonely puppy dog. “You're the bestest horsey, Daddy. Please?”

That little face looked so hopeful that Jeff was loath to turn him down. But he was in the middle of a reading a very important proposal, one that had a swiftly approaching deadline. So, against his better inclination, he said sadly, “I'm sorry, Gordon, but Daddy has to work right now. We'll play horsey later, okay?”

“Promise?” The boy's big brown eyes looked so serious as his smile faded.

“I promise,” Jeff said solemnly.

“Okay, Daddy.” Gordon sounded very disappointed. He started to withdraw, and then suddenly poked his head back in. “'Member, Daddy. You promised.”

Jeff nodded and smiled slightly. “I'll remember. Now please let me get back to work.”

“Okay, Daddy.” The head disappeared and a hand took its place, waving up and down. “Bye, Daddy.”

Jeff couldn't help but chuckle. “Bye, Gordon.”

He took the time to write himself a note about Gordon, sticking it to the side of his computer. Then he got back to work.

Before he knew it, supper time had rolled around. Jeff still had a lot to do. He saw the note on his computer, and groaned. _Still, a promise is a promise,_ he said to himself as he headed for the dining room.

“Hey, Dad!” Scott said, as Jeff sat down with the family. “Can you help me with my history homework? We're studying the beginnings of space flight and I have to memorize the names of the first NASA programs.”

Jeff's eyes lit up. He started to tell Scott that he would, but a pair of accusing brown eyes farther down the table caught his gaze. He paused for a moment, and changed his tack.

“Sure, I can help. But it'll have to wait a little bit. I promised to spend some time with Gordon.”

Gordon's face lit up. He beamed as Jeff gave him a wink. Eleanor caught her son's eye, giving him a soft smile and an approving nod.

After dinner, Jeff went up to his room and pulled out his father's leather hat. He traced a finger over its crown, then held it behind his back as he came down the stairs. Gordon was calling for him, and standing beside the three-year-old was his younger brother.

“Daddy? Can we play horsey now? Please?”

“Yes, son. Let's go down to the family room.”

“Can Alan play, too? Please?”

Jeff gazed down on his sons and grinned. ”Sure, he can play, too. But one at a time, okay?” He pulled the hat out from behind his back and plunked it on Gordon's head. ”Here. Every cowboy needs a proper hat.”

Gordon laughed with delight. “Grandpa's hat! I get to wear Grandpa's hat!”

For the next half hour, Jeff was a bucking bronco, rearing up from hands and knees, crawling around as his youngest sons rode on his back. Finally, he tired. He flopped to the carpeted family room floor, where both Alan and Gordon fell on him for some rough and tumble wrestling. His knees would sting with rug burns for a day or so; he knew his back would ache in the morning, but the sounds of their laughter still rang sweetly in his ears.

_**June, 2069 - Alan** _

The thought of him playing “horse” to his boys finally got him moving. He reached the study and opened the door quietly. Sneaking in, he peeked around the corner. Most everyone was crowded around Tin-Tin, who held a bundle of blue in her arms. Everyone but one: a little girl who played with a doll baby near the steps to the study.

“Samani,” he called quietly. “Sammy, come here.”

The child turned her face to his voice, her golden skin and tumble of black curls at odds with her dark blue eyes. “Ganpa?” she called.

He crooked a finger at her, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. When she got up and went to him, he whispered in her ear.

A few minutes later, little Samani toddled out of the study, the leather hat almost covering her eyes. She walked boldly up to her father.

“Pway ho'sey, Daddy? Pwease?”

Alan turned from his wife and new son, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of his daughter. “Hey, Sammy, where'd you get that hat?”

“Ganpa's hat!” she said proudly.

All of the lounge's occupants looked up to see Jeff leaning on the edge of the grillwork door, arms folded, smiling at the little girl in the battered old hat. He raised his eyes to Alan's and the smile turned into a grin.

“Well, Alan? The child asked you politely. And she's certainly decked out properly. I want to see if you're going to be as good a horse as I was.”

"Why not ol' Uncle Gordon here?" Alan asked, half to his child, half to his father. He hooked a thumb over one shoulder to indicate his older brother.

"Don't you remember, Al?" Gordon replied with a grin. "Daddies make the bestest horseys."

Alan snorted a laugh, but obligingly got down on his hands and knees. Gordon lifted the little girl onto her father's back. 

“Now hold on tight and don't let this old bronco buck you off, y'hear?”

“Okay, Unca Gordy.”

Alan the horse began to neigh and snort, timidly at first, then with more gusto as he got into acting the part. His brothers laughed. His grandmother cautioned him to be careful, but his father just stood there watching, grinning, and saving up the memory to add to the collection that surrounded his father's hat.

_**fin** _


End file.
